


I'll Be Good

by lordmxrphy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, well like canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:40:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7296223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordmxrphy/pseuds/lordmxrphy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Clarke kisses Bellamy, it’s not right. The second time, it’s as goodbye. The third time... the third time, Bellamy kisses Clarke back.</p>
<p>  <b>Runner up for Best Angst Drabble in the <a href="http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/148239421670/congratulations-wellsjahasghost">2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Awards</a>!!</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Good

**Author's Note:**

> prompt fill for bellarke fanfiction inspired by the song I'll be good by Jaymes Young

I.

He finds her in the dirt. Digging her nails into the cold, hard earth. 

_How can you forgive me?_

_It’s already done._

She flinches when his hand lands on her shoulder. It disappears and a moment later she realizes the hand belonged to Bellamy when she hears him clear his throat. She doesn’t turn to look at him, but she hears the leaves move when he crouches beside her, leaving two feet of space between them. She counts off the seconds in the space before he speaks. One, two, three, four… 

“Clarke.” 

Bellamy always says her name like it’s its own sentence. Like it deserves its own punctuation. A period. An exclamation point. A question mark or an ellipses. Everything Bellamy does seems deliberate. Even the way he says her name. She wonders if it’s real, if he’s really so sure of everything he does. She doesn’t know how to feel sure about anything anymore.

“Are you planning on staying out here all night?” he asks. Clarke digs her fingers deeper into the earth, a twinge of pain shoots up her arm, but Clarke ignores it. She feels like she’s barely inside her own body anymore. She’s only absently aware of the weight of her hair on her shoulders and her wet cheeks. Rain and tears are surprisingly heavy. There are goosebumps on her arms, but she doesn’t feel cold.

“I don’t know,” her voice sounds like she feels. Ragged. Wrecked. Wrong. Because Wells is gone. Wells is gone and grief hits her again like a wave pulling her under. She chokes on it, but it’s no use. She’s drowning inside her own body. She’s drowning in her own sadness.

Clarke wishes she believed in ghosts. Or God. Or some kind of afterlife. Clarke wishes she thought there was more for Wells besides freezing cold dirt and decay. 

But she doesn’t. _She doesn’t._

It takes Clarke a minute to realize Bellamy is speaking again and another minute to tune in to his words.

“...irresponsible. You’re our only doctor. You can’t get sick.” 

If she didn’t know better, she might think he cared.

Clarke exhales. Counts the beats. One, two, three, four…

“Okay,” she says, she’s not quite sure what she’s agreeing with, but she says the word anyway, “Okay.” 

But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t get up. She doesn’t turn towards Bellamy. She can’t quite remember how. Everything feels heavy. Her head, her arms, her body. Everything’s blurred. Clarke can’t tell if she’s crying or if she’s finally lost her mind. 

_It’s already done. It’s already done. It’s already done._

Her mind plays the words on repeat. She’s been reduced to a broken record player.

So much time wasted. So many of Wells’ last moments lost. 

She misses him so much her heart aches. She missed him before she died. Her own anger and stubbornness kept her from spending the last weeks of Wells’ life with him. Grief ties a knot around her throat. She almost wishes that grief was enough to strangle her.

_No._ No, that’s not what Wells would want. He wouldn’t want her to fall apart. Wells wouldn’t want Clarke to fall apart like this. She lets herself picture him in front of her. His face, so familiar. His hands, always soft. She used to tease him about how soft his hands were. Hers were always covered in paint and callouses while Wells' hands were always neat. 

She startles when something rough brushes her knuckles. She sucks in a sharp breath at the sting. She tries to pull away, but a large hand stops her. Bellamy’s low voice reaches her like it’s miles and not inches away.

Clarke blinks, she feels like she’s coming out of a dream. Her surroundings snap into focus. Orange tarp. Dirt floor. Bellamy on his knees in front of her. Her breath stutters at the last detail, at the sight of Bellamy carefully and meticulously cleaning her hands with a wet rag. 

The air smells like moonshine and she notices the open bottle beside him. Her brain feels slow as she processes the red on the rag, it takes her too long to realize that her knuckles are split open and that Bellamy is digging dirt out of the wound. Her nails are ragged and broken from the way she dug them into the ground. 

She feels detached. Like she’s floating. Only the stinging pain keeps her grounded inside her own body. But her mind feels off. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t recognize the Bellamy in front of her. Because this Bellamy is soft. His brow is puckered in concern, not anger and his tongue is poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on Clarke’s hands. He doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it. 

Bellamy glances up and blinks in surprise when he sees Clarke’s eyes focused on him. He clears his throat.

One, two, three, four seconds pass.

“You okay?”

_I’m fine,_ teeters at the edge of Clarke’s lips, poised to fall. But she’s not fine. She’s never been less fine in her life. 

She doesn’t say anything.

She realizes with a jolt that it’s because she doesn’t want to lie to Bellamy. That he’s one of the few people she’s always been able to tell the truth. Even when the truth was ugly. Even when it was an insult, a weapon. She never lied to him. And, for some reason, she doesn’t want to start now.

Bellamy sighs. “Right, stupid question.”

She listens to his breaths as he cleans her knuckles. 

When her knuckles are just red, the dirt all gone, Bellamy lets her go. He sits back on his heels and tosses the rag aside. 

“You can sleep in here tonight if you want,” he says, gruff, like a harsh tone will mask the kindness inherent in his words.

He grabs the cap beside the moonshine to close it, but Clarke reaches out and stops him. 

Bellamy lets Clarke take the moonshine and she holds it by the neck, letting the bottle rest on her knee.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks, her words wobble on unsteady feet. She looks up in time to catch the surprise that flits across his face before he shutters it.

Bellamy’s mouth turns down. His brow puckers.

“Because Wells died and you’re not okay.”

She bristles, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s basic sense. I can’t let our only doctor die because she got a cold after sitting outside all night in the rain. ”

Something eases in her chest. 

“Okay.”

She brings the moonshine up to her mouth. She takes one gulp, two, three, four. Her throat burns and tongue feels like it’s on fire. She coughs and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. Then she holds out the bottle.

“You’re not going to let me drink alone are you?”

She’s starting to feel hazy. It’s been forever since she had a drink. The last time was before she got locked up. Her tolerance is low and the moonshine is strong. 

She sways when the cot dips as Bellamy takes a seat beside her. He takes the bottle and Clarke watches him take a long pull. Her eyes catch on the way his throat works as he swallows.

The sight makes her feel warm, but it could just be the moonshine.

“My best friend is dead,” she’s pretty sure her words are slurred.

Bellamy looks at her, “I know.”

“I miss him.”

His eyes soften and so does his voice, “I know.”

She looks at Bellamy, taking in his messy curls, his strong jaw, his broad shoulders and the dip of his collarbone. When she meets his eyes, they look warm, warmer than she’s ever seen them. Clarke lets herself pretend that what she sees in his eyes is fondness and she leans forward.

She kisses him, sloppy, nearly missing his mouth. But it’s only for a moment because then Bellamy’s hand is in her hair. But he doesn’t pull her in closer, he moves away.

“Clarke, you’re drunk.”

“I just need… I need to feel something else right now.”

“No, you need to let yourself grieve.”

Bellamy lets her go and stands, putting one, two, three, four feet of space between them. Clarke sways, catching herself with her hand on the cot. 

“Get some sleep, Clarke. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She doesn’t remember much else, but she has enough presence of mind to get her boots off before she falls asleep curled up in Bellamy’s cot.

She wakes up in the morning to tangled sheets, a hangover, and embarrassment that burns hot on the back of her neck. But Bellamy never brings up that night, so she doesn’t either. They never talk about what happened, but Clarke remembers. Of course she does.

 

II.

Her hands feel like they’re stained with blood. They won’t stop shaking. Clarke can smell death on her hair. She can taste ash on her tongue.

_I am become death. The destroyer of worlds._ She said it so long ago. She didn’t know how true those words would be.

She tries to still the trembling in her body when she wraps Monty in a hug outside the gate. She wonders if he knows why she squeezes him so tight. She knows leaving is the right choice, but that doesn’t mean it’s not hard. 

When _he_ sidles up next to her, the world rises in her throat. 

“I think we deserve a drink.”

She’s glad he’s not looking at her because she’s sure that in that moment it breaks across her face. The loss, the pain, how goddamn broken she really is. There are tears in her eyes and a cry caught in her throat. She swallows it. 

“Have one for me.”

“Clarke.” He already knows. She can tell, he already knows she’s saying goodbye.

But he tries to get her to stay anyway. His voice nearly breaks on that please and she nearly breaks with it.

_Together._

_Together,_ that’s what he said. And the only moment her hand felt steady inside that mountain was when it was under his. _Together,_ he said, but she can’t do it. She can’t do this together. She doesn’t know how. She’s always dealt with things on her own.

But that’s not quite true. In the mountain, Bellamy didn’t make her face it all alone. He didn’t let her. And with Lexa’s abandonment still a fresh and bitter taste in her mouth, Clarke doesn’t know how to tell Bellamy how grateful she is for it all.

_Together._

But this shouldn’t be his burden. It should be hers. Because Finn killed for _her_. Lexa left _her_. Clarke’s a walking shadow. _Clarke’s_ the bringer of death.

Atom. Wells. Charlotte. Anya. Finn. Maya. The bodies pile up. 

She doesn’t want to bring any more death.

“Take care of them for me.”

“Clarke.” Bellamy’s always said her name like it’s its own sentence. This time, it feels like a plea.

Bellamy’s better off without her, she tells herself. But even as she thinks it, she knows it’s not true. She knows she’s leaving him alone. She knows she’s abandoning Bellamy when he needs her most. _Together_ , he said, but she’s not sure she can hold up her end. 

She knows she’s not being fair, but she also knows that if she sticks around, the next death might be her own.

She never lies to Bellamy.

“Seeing their faces every day... it’s just gonna remind me of what I did to get them here.”

“What _we_ did. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She looks away because she can’t. She can’t stay here and she knows that. She thinks he knows it too. She looks at the gate, but she can’t see past the tears in her eyes. 

“I bear it so they don’t have to.”

She kisses his cheek, lingering a beat too long. In that beat, she wishes she had the strength to stick around. She wishes she wasn’t leaving Bellamy alone. She bears it so they don’t have to, but she knows Bellamy’s going to bear it anyway. Bellamy’s always carried more than his fair share and when he said together he meant it.

She wishes she was strong enough to stay. She leaves anyway.

But she promises herself that she won’t let her last words to Bellamy be a lie. She doesn’t lie to Bellamy. She won’t start now.

They will meet again.

 

III.

They finally get that drink. More than one actually. 

The world has ended too many times to count at this point. But, in the morning, it always starts again. And this time, there’s no nuclear apocalypse, there’s no impending catastrophe. Alie lied and Raven figured it out in a matter of days. 

Relations with the grounders are still tense, but they’re getting better. They’re no longer on the brink of war, they’re no longer on the brink of disaster. No, now they only have themselves to contend with. Their own ghosts to fight.

It isn’t until two weeks after Octavia leaves that Clarke sees Bellamy truly get _drunk._

She’s there when Kane delivers the news that his sister is with Indra and that she doesn’t want to see anyone. She’s there to see the way Bellamy goes dead behind the eyes. His ghosts rise and a tear falls. Bellamy turns and she and Kane let him go. 

Clarke waits as long as she can before following Bellamy to his room. She’s never seen Bellamy like this. She doesn’t know what he needs and she hates herself for not knowing. She hates that she left all those months ago because it means that now she doesn’t even know the best way to be there for her best friend when he’s hurt. 

Bellamy’s always known what she needed. When she needed him to clean her scrapes, when she needed him to let her go. Bellamy’s always been the caretaker and Clarke doesn’t know how to give him what he’s always given her. She doesn’t know, so she relies on her gut. She listens when it tells her not to leave Bellamy alone. 

His door is wide open when she reaches it. And Bellamy’s standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. His back is to Clarke and she closes the door after stepping inside. He doesn’t react. 

She walks around until she’s standing in front of him. His gaze is on the ground. His breaths are ragged. 

“Bellamy?”

Her fingers itch to reach out for him, but she keeps her hands by her sides and waits for him to give her some sign as to what he wants. If he wants her to leave, she will, but not until she knows that’s the case. Bellamy blinks and looks up at her, his eyes so deep with emotion she nearly falls in. His hand moves like he wants to reach for her and she takes that as her signal. She immediately steps into his space and Bellamy sways to meet her. Their fingers tangle. She catches his jaw with her hand and he leans his forehead against her temple. She takes his weight, she lets him know she’s there.

And then they stand there, just breathing. Just being. One, two, three four long beats pass before Clarke turns her head towards Bellamy. He doesn’t pull away, he just lets his nose drag across her temple until his lips find her hairline. She ignores the way her heart responds to the feel of his mouth against her skin and the way his hot breath scatters her thoughts. 

After another long pause, she leads him by the hand to the couch. They sit down, neither one of them letting go. 

There’s bottle of moonshine on the crate beside the couch, right where she and Bellamy left it a few nights ago. That evening, they’d been more focused on talking than drinking. Trying to chip away at the mountain of unsaid words between them. They’d spent hours on that couch, but they’d barely scratched the surface. They’d talked and talked and talked without really saying anything. They talked about the weather, about Raven, about Monty, about Miller. They talked about Clarke learning how to drive, about Bellamy learning how to swim. But they didn’t talk about the big things. They didn’t bring up Octavia or Lexa. They didn’t address the yellowing bruises on Bellamy’s face or the scars on Clarke’s heart. But talking, just talking, was a start. A step towards healing. Because, sometimes, words could be meaningful in their meaninglessness. Now, their life was more than just impossible decisions. Now, they had the freedom to talk about things that didn’t end in life or death, but that still mattered.

That night, their words had been light. Tonight, the silence is heavy. 

Bellamy downs the moonshine like it’s water. One gulp, two gulps, three gulps, four.

Clarke thinks that maybe she should be worried, but she’s not. She trusts Bellamy. And she knows that he’s only really allowing himself to let go like this because he knows that he can afford to do so. He’s trusting the world not to fall apart if he takes the night off. Because, sometimes, a person just needs to feel nothing. They need an escape. When Clarke needed one, she ran away. It’s the least she can do to let Bellamy have a night off. He’s more than earned that much.

So Bellamy drinks, but Clarke doesn’t join him. Bellamy needs a friend, not a drinking partner. They sit in silence as Bellamy drinks his way through the bottle. 

Clarke takes away the bottle when Bellamy misses his mouth, moonshine spilling across his chin and down his neck. Clarke turns away to set the bottle on the ground behind her and when she turns back around, her breath catches at the sight of Bellamy using the bottom of his shirt to wipe moonshine off his face. She swallows hard at the sight of all that skin and looks away, thankful Bellamy is too drunk to notice the flush on her neck and cheeks.

They settle back into comfortable silence and after a few minutes, Clarke’s eyes start to droop. She doesn’t sleep much these days, kept awake by nightmares and the memories she wishes were just nightmares.

She’s fighting exhaustion so it takes her too long to realize what Bellamy’s doing when he digs his thumb into his cheekbone. It’s only when she hears him suck in a short breath that she realizes he’s pressing into the bruise beneath his eye. One of the many bruises Miller told her that Octavia left. Clarke sits up, hot and cold and urging her stomach back down her throat. 

She reaches forward and wraps her fingers around Bellamy’s wrist. She pulls his hand away as gently as she can. She scoots forward and doesn’t let go. Instead, she slides her hand down until she can slide her fingers between Bellamy’s. The silence that follows feels heavier and when Clarke sees Bellamy’s right hand twitch like he wants to bring that one up as well, she reaches down and grabs that hand too. Bellamy’s hands end up in Clarke’s lap and their knees knock together. She bends her legs up to rest them on top of his.

“Bellamy,” she starts softly. Barely above a whisper. 

“Don’t,” he says, and she’s never heard him sound this desperate. This raw. It reminds her of how he sounded when he asked her to stay. She hates that she was once the reason behind his hurt. 

“Bellamy,” she starts again, “you were right when you told me that the things we do to survive don’t define us. They don’t. What we’ve done isn’t who we are. That’s not who _you_ are.” He’s already shaking his head so she rushes on, not thinking about her words or the best way to phrase them. “I know you, Bellamy. You’re brave and smart and you care so much I think you’re going to break your own heart. You did what you thought was right and when you realized you were wrong you did everything you could to try to fix your mistake. But you aren’t the one who did something wrong this time. Octavia is.”

Bellamy’s nose bumps Clarke’s temple and she feels his warm breath against her ear when he speaks. Low and ragged.

“I spent my whole life trying to protect her.”

“I know,” she whispers.

“She hates me.” His voice sounds thick. Like he’s swallowing tears. “She--I gave up my life for her and now she can’t even look at me. I thought that if--I thought she might feel better after--”

“Bellamy,” she breathes, “it’s not your fault Lincoln died.”

“I know, but--”

“It’s not your fault Lincoln died and Octavia was wrong to blame you. What she did was wrong. You didn’t deserve it. You may have made mistakes, but you don’t deserve what she did to you.”

“What if I did deserve it?” he whispers, staring at his hands in her lap.

“Bellamy, look at me,” she waits for him to meet her eyes. His gaze is unfocused, glazed from the moonshine, “you don’t deserve to be hurt. You’ve made mistakes, but so have I, so has Octavia, so has every goddamn person in this camp. We’ve all have done things we regret and things that we don’t regret, but maybe we should. But Bellamy,” she rubs her thumb along his knuckles, “you deserve more than bruises and no apology.” 

Bellamy stares at her for one, two, three, four beats of silence before he nods, she lets go of his hands and pulls him into a hug. He tucks his nose into her neck and she presses her lips against his shoulder. 

Later, Bellamy falls asleep with his head in Clarke’s lap and his left hand still holding onto hers. It’s past three in the morning when she decides she should go, but Bellamy tightens his grip on her hand when he feels her move.

“Stay here tonight,” he mumbles, still half asleep.

“My leg is falling asleep.”

He turns his head and looks up at her. He blinks once, twice, three times, four.

“We can use my bed,” for some reason the words sound like an omission and the look in his eyes is so open that Clarke can’t find it in herself to argue. Bellamy pulls her into his bed beside him. She tells herself it’s probably the moonshine when he curls around her and tucks his nose into her hair. She doesn’t stop to think about how she likes it before sleep tugs her down into oblivion.

In the morning, Bellamy’s sheets smell like pine and must and no nightmares. Clarke turns over and finds him still asleep. His hair a messy tangle on the pillow and his mouth slack and relaxed. 

Longing hits her like a pile of bricks. Longing for this man. Longing to be able to go to bed with him every night and wake up with him every morning. 

“Fuck,” she says under her breath, sucking in a breath when Bellamy stirs. He rubs his eyes and turns his head on the pillow to look at her.

And then… like it’s as natural to him as breathing, Bellamy reaches over and tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear, smiling at her softly in a way Clarke’s never seen.

She doesn’t stop to think or breathe or plan ahead when she leans down and presses her mouth to his. 

She has a brief moment of panic when Bellamy’s hand curls into her hair, but unlike that night months and lifetimes ago, this time, Bellamy doesn’t push Clarke away. He pulls her in. He opens his mouth and licks into hers and Clarke wonders if she really has a shot at forever of this.

She hopes she does.

**Author's Note:**

> I still miss Wells :( 
> 
> Please don't forget to leave a comment letting me know if you liked the story! It really means a lot x
> 
> (p.s. you can also follow me on [my tumblr](http://antebellamy.tumblr.com/), I'm on there more than I should be.)


End file.
